by Nora Roberts
“I wouldn’t know.” Fran shifted the baby to her shoulder. “Most of that’s blown over. Why don’t you tell me what’s really eating at you?”
Deanna gave the fire one last poke. “I’m scared.” She said it quietly, as a fresh frisson of ice skated up her spine. “I got another note.”
“Oh God. When?”
“Friday, right after I spoke to the literacy group at the Drake.”
“Cassie was with you.”
“Yes.” Deanna rubbed at the dull ache at the back of her neck. “I don’t seem to go anywhere alone anymore. Always an entourage.”
“Cassie’s hardly an entourage.” But Fran recognized the twist of topic as avoidance. “Tell me about the note, Dee.”
“We ran a little long with the photo session afterward. Cassie left—she had a few things she wanted to finish up at the office before the weekend.”
She flashed back to it, the scene as clear in her mind as a film loop. Another handshake, another snick of the camera shutter. People crowding around for a word, for a look.
“Just one more picture, Deanna, please. You and the mayor’s wife.”
“Just one more.” Cassie spoke up, her smile amiable, her voice firm. “Miss Reynolds is already running late for her next appointment.”
Deanna remembered feeling amusement. Her next appointment, thankfully, was throwing a few sweaters into her suitcase and heading out of the city.
She posed again, with the mayor’s wife and the plaque for her work for literacy, then eased her way along, with Cassie running interference.
“Good job, Dee. Here, let me take that.” Cassie slipped the plaque into her briefcase while Deanna bundled into her coat.
“It didn’t feel like a job. They were great.”
“They were—you were.” Cassie cast a leery eye over her shoulder. The elegant lobby of the Drake was still crowded with people. “But take my word on this. Just keep walking and don’t look back or you won’t get out of here until midnight.” To hurry her along, Cassie took her arm and led Deanna out of the lobby and onto the sidewalk. “Listen, I’m going to take a cab back to the office.”
“Don’t be silly. Tim can drop you off.”
“Then you’ll think of something you just have to do while you’re there. Go home,” Cassie ordered. “Pack, leave. Don’t show your face in this town until Sunday night.”
It sounded too good to argue. “Yes, ma’am.”
Laughing, Cassie kissed her cheek. “Have a great weekend.”
“You too.”
They parted there, heading in opposite directions through the snapping wind and swirling snow.
“Sorry I’m late, Tim.”
“No problem, Miss Reynolds.” With his long black coat flapping around his knees, Tim opened the door of the limo. “How’d it go?”
“Fine. Really fine, thanks.”
Still glowing with the energy of a job well done, she slipped inside the cushy warmth.
And there it was. Just that plain envelope, a square of white against the burgundy leather seat . . . .
“I asked Tim if someone had come up to the car,” Deanna continued, “but he hadn’t seen anyone. It was cold and he’d gone inside the building for a while. He said the car was locked, and I know how conscientious Tim is, so I’m sure it was.”
Too many notes, Fran thought, as her stomach muscles jiggled. And they were coming too often in the last couple of months. “Did you call the police?”
“I called Lieutenant Jenner from the car phone. I don’t have any control over this.” Her voice rose as much in frustration as fear. And it helped, she realized, to have something, anything other than fear coursing through her. “I can’t analyze it and put it in a slot. I can’t tidy it up or toss it away.” Determined to calm herself, she rubbed her hands over her face as if she could massage away the panic. “I can’t even discuss this rationally. Every time I remind myself that I haven’t been threatened, I haven’t been hurt, I feel this little bubble of hysteria building up. He finds me everywhere. I want to beg him to leave me alone. To just leave me alone. Fran,” she said helplessly, “I’m a mess.”
Fran got up to lay Kelsey in the playpen. She crossed to take Deanna’s hands in hers. There was more than comfort in the contact—anger simmered just beneath. “Why haven’t you told me this before? Why haven’t you let me know how much this is upsetting you?”
“You’ve got enough to handle. Aubrey, the new baby.”
“So you took pity on the new mother and pretended that you were shrugging this whole business off as a by-product of fame?” Suddenly furious, Fran slapped both hands on her hips. “That’s crap, Dee. Insulting crap.”
“I didn’t see the point in worrying you,” Deanna shot back. “There’s so much stuff going on right now—the show, the backlash from Angela; Margaret’s teenager wrecked the car, Simon’s mother died.” Despising the need to defend herself, she turned back to the window. “Finn’s going off to Haiti next week.” Outside the dog leaped at flying snowballs. Deanna wanted to weep. Resting her head on the cool glass, she waited until her system leveled. “I thought I could handle it myself. I wanted to handle it myself.”
“What about Finn?” Fran walked over to rub her hand over Deanna’s stiff back. “Does he have a clue what’s going on inside you right now?”
“He has a lot on his mind.”
Fran didn’t bother to repress a disgusted snort. “Which means you’ve been playing the same game with him. Did you tell him about this last note?”
“It seemed best to wait until he got back from this next trip.”
“It’s selfish.”
“Selfish?” Her voice cracked in surprised hurt. “How can you say that? I don’t want him worried about me when he’s thousands of miles away.”
“He wants to worry about you. Jesus, Dee, how can anyone so sensitive, so compassionate, be so obstinate? You’ve got a man out there who loves you. Who wants to share everything with you, good and bad. He deserves to know what you’re feeling. If you love him half as much as he loves you, you’ve got no right to keep things from him.”
“That wasn’t what I meant to do.”
“It’s what you are doing. It’s unfair to him, Dee. Just like—” She cut herself off, swearing. “I’m sorry.” But her voice was stiff and cool. “It’s none of my business how you and Finn deal with your relationship.”
“No, don’t stop now,” Deanna said, equally cool. “Finish it. Just like what?”
“All right, then.” Fran took a deep breath. Their friendship had lasted more than ten years. She hoped it would weather one more storm. “It’s unfair for you to ask him to put his own needs on hold.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“For God’s sake, look at him, Dee. Look at him with Aubrey.” She clamped her hand on Deanna’s arm and pushed her back to the window. “Take a good look.”
She did, watching Finn spin Aubrey around and around, snow spewing up at his feet. The child’s delighted shrieks echoed like a song.
“That man wants a family. He wants you. You’re denying him both because you haven’t got everything neatly stacked in place. That’s not just selfish, Dee. It’s not just unfair. It’s sad.” When Deanna said nothing, she turned away. “I’ve got to change the baby.” Gathering Kelsey up, she left the room.
Deanna stood where she was for a long time. She could see Finn wrestling with the dog as Aubrey leaped into her father’s arms to slide a ragged cap onto the top of the big-bellied snowman.
But she could see more. Finn crossing the tarmac in a torrent of rain, a cocky grin on his face and a swagger in his step. Finn exhausted and asleep on her couch, or laughing as she reeled in her first fat fish. Gentle and sweet as he took her to bed. Gritty-eyed and grim as he returned from observing some fresh disaster.
He was always there, she realized. Always.
She went through the motions that evening, serving up big bowls of beef stew, laughing at Richar
d’s jokes. If someone had peeked in the kitchen window, they would have seen a jolly group of friends sharing a meal. Attractive people, comfortable with one other. It would have been difficult to spot any tension, any discord.
But Finn was a trained observer. Even had that not been the case, he could judge Deanna’s moods by the flick of an eyelash.
He hadn’t questioned her about the tension he sensed, hoping she would tell him on her own. As the evening wore on, he accepted, impatiently, that he would have to push. Perhaps he would always have to push.
He watched her settle down in the living room, a smile on her face. Unhappiness in her eyes.
God, the woman frustrated him. Fascinated him. For almost two years they had been lovers, as physically intimate as it was possible to be. Yet no matter how open she was, how honest, she managed to tuck away little pieces. Closing them off from him, locking them tight and hoarding them.
She was doing it now, he realized.
Her hand might reach for his, holding it with comfortable familiarity. But her mind was elsewhere, methodically working through a problem she refused to share.
Her problem, she would say in that reasonable tone that by turns infuriated and amused him. Nothing she couldn’t handle on her own. Nothing she needed him to deal with.
Hurt, Finn set his glass aside and slipped upstairs.
He built up the fire in the bedroom, brooding over it. He wondered how long he could wait for Deanna to take the next step. Forever, he thought, with an oath. She was as much a part of him as his muscle and bone.
The need that had been growing in him for family, for a steady, rooted life, was nothing compared with his need for her.
What was much worse, as well as totally unexpected, was that he wanted, quite desperately, for her to need him.
A new one for Riley, he mused, and wished he could see the humor in this realization. The need to be needed, to be tied down, to be . . . settled, he realized, wasn’t a particularly comfortable sensation, and after several months, he understood it wasn’t going to go away.
And he was beginning to hate the status quo.
She found him crouched at the hearth, staring into the flames. After closing the door quietly at her back, she crossed over, brushed a hand through his hair.
“What the hell is going on, Deanna?” He continued to stare into the fire. “You’ve been edgy since we got here last night, and pretending not to be. When I came in before dinner, you’d been crying. And you and Fran are circling each other like a couple of boxers in the tenth round.”
“Fran’s angry with me.” She sat on the hassock and folded her hands in her lap. She could feel his tension in the air. “I guess you will be, too.” Lowering her eyes, she told him about the note, answering his terse questions and waiting for his reaction.
She didn’t wait long.
He stood where he was, with the fire snapping at his back. His gaze never left her face and was calm, entirely too calm.
“Why didn’t you tell me right away?”
“I thought it was best to wait until I’d sorted through it a bit.”
“You thought.” He nodded, slipped his hands into his pockets. “You thought it was none of my concern.”
“No, of course not.” She hated the fact that his cool interviewing skills always put her on the defensive. “I just didn’t want to spoil the weekend. There’s nothing you can do anyway.”
His eyes darkened at that—the wicked cobalt Angela had described. It was a sure sign of passion. Yet his voice, when he responded, didn’t alter so much as a degree in tone. That was control.
“Goddamn you, Deanna, you sit there and make me treat this like a hostile interview where I have to drag the facts out of you.” Fear and fury burned through him. “I’m not tolerating this. I’m fed up with your tucking things away and filing them under ‘For Deanna Only.’ ” He stepped forward then and, with a speed that had her blinking, pulled her to her feet. She’d expected him to be angry, but she hadn’t expected the rage she saw on his face.
“Finn,” she said carefully. “You’re hurting me.”
“What do you think you’re doing to me?” He released her so quickly she staggered back a step. He spun away, shoving fisted hands in his pockets. “You don’t have a clue. Don’t you know how badly I want to get my hands on this creep? That I want to break him in half for causing you one minute of fear? How useless I feel when you get one of those goddamn notes and the color drains out of your face? And how much worse it is, how much harder it is, because after all this time you don’t trust me?”
“It isn’t a matter of trust.” The violence in his eyes had her heart jumping into her throat. In all the time they’d been together, she’d never seen him so close to the edge. “It’s not, Finn. It’s pride. I didn’t want to admit that I couldn’t handle it alone.”
He was silent for a long time, the only sound the spit of flames eating steadily at dry logs. “Damn your pride, Deanna,” he said quietly. “I’m tired of beating my head against it.”
Panic welled up inside her like a geyser. His words were a closing statement, a segment ender. With an involuntary cry of alarm, she grabbed his arm before he could stalk out. “Finn, please.”
“I’m going for a walk.” He stepped back, holding palms up, afraid he might cause them both irreparable damage if he touched her. “There are ways of working off this kind of mad. The most constructive one is to walk it off.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you. I love you.”
“That’s handy, because I love you, too.” And at the moment, his love felt as though it were killing him. “It just doesn’t seem to be enough.”
“I don’t care if you’re mad.” She reached out again and clung. “You should be mad. You should shout and rage.”
Gently, while he could still manage it, he loosened her grip. “You’re the shouter, Deanna. It’s in the genes, I’d say. And I come from a long line of negotiators. It just so happens I’m out of compromises.”
“I’m not asking you to compromise. I only want you to listen to what else I have to say.”
“Fine.” But he moved away from her, to the window seat in the shadows. “Talk’s your forte, after all. Go ahead, Deanna, be reasonable, objective, sympathetic. I’ll be the audience.”
Rather than rise to the bait, she sat again. “I had no idea you were this angry with me. It’s not just about me not telling you about this last note, is it?”
“What do you think?”
She’d interviewed dozens of hostile guests over the years. She doubted if any would be tougher than Finn Riley with his Irish up. “I’ve taken you for granted, and I’ve been unfair. And you’ve let me.”
“That’s good,” he said dryly. “Start out with a self-deprecating statement, then circle around. It’s no wonder you’re on top.”
“Don’t.” She threw her head back, the firelight glinting in her eyes. “Let me finish. At least let me finish before you tell me it’s over.”
There was silence again. Though she couldn’t see his face when he spoke, she heard the weariness in his voice. “Do you think I could?”
“I don’t know.” A tear spilled over, glimmering in the shifting light. “I haven’t let myself think about it until recently.”
“Christ, don’t cry.”
She heard him shift, but he didn’t move toward her.
“I won’t.” She brushed the tear away, swallowed the others that threatened. She knew she could weaken him with tears. And that she would despise herself for it. “I’ve always thought that I could make everything come out in order, if I just worked at it diligently enough. If I planned it all carefully enough. So I wrote lists, adhered to timetables. I’ve cheated us both by treating our relationship as if it were a task—a wonderful task—but a task to be handled.” She was talking too fast, but couldn’t stop, the words tumbling over each other in their hurry to be said. “And I suppose I was feeling pretty smug about the job I was doing. We fit so well to
gether, and I loved being your lover. And then today, I watched you outside, and I realized for the first time how badly I’ve botched it all.” God, she wished she could see his face, his eyes. “You know how I hate to make mistakes.”
“Yes, I do.” He had to take a moment. It wasn’t only her pride on the line. “It sounds as though you’re the one doing the ending, Deanna.”
“No.” She sprang up. “No, I’m trying to ask you to marry me.”
A log collapsed in the grate, shooting sparks and hissing fire. When it settled again, the only sound she heard was her own unsteady breathing. He rose, crossed from shadow into light. His eyes were as guarded and enigmatic as an ace gambler calling a bluff. “Are you afraid I’ll walk if you don’t do this?”
“I imagine the hole there would be in my life if you did, and I’m terrified. And because I’m terrified I wonder why I’ve waited so long. Maybe I’m wrong and you don’t want marriage anymore. If that’s the way you feel, I’ll wait.” She thought if he continued to stare at her with that mild curiosity, she’d scream. “Say something, damn it. Yes, no, go to hell. Something.”
“Why? Why now, Deanna?”
“Don’t make this an interview.”
“Why?” he repeated. When he grabbed her arms she realized there was nothing mild about his mood.
“Because everything’s so complicated now.” Her voice rose, trembled, broke. “Because life doesn’t fit into any of my neat scheduling plans, and I don’t want being married to you to be neat and orderly. Because with the November sweeps raging, and all this crazy publicity with Angela, and you going off to Haiti, it’s probably the worst possible time to think about getting married. So that makes it the best time.”
Despite his tangled emotions, he laughed. “For once your logic totally eludes me.”
“I don’t need life to be perfect, Finn. For once, I don’t need that. It just has to be right. And we’re so absolutely right.” She blinked back more tears, then gave up and let them fall. “Will you marry me?”
He tipped her head back so that he could study her face. And he smiled, slowly, as all those tangled emotions smoothed out into one silky sheet. “Well, you know, Kansas, this is awfully sudden.”
